No Greater Love
by Bohemian Anne
Summary: After Jack's death in the sinking, Rose bears their child alone.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The water lapped gently around the piece of wreckage upon which she lay. Earlier, the sound of screams had filled the air, but now those sounds had died away, replaced by only a few feeble cries for help from the dying people.

She looked dully at the man in the water beside her. He was shivering violently, his hand clutching hers but providing no real warmth.

"It's getting quiet," she commented, knowing deep inside what it meant. The people who had survived the Titanic's plunge into the sea were dying, and no one was coming to help them.

The man responded, his voice still holding a hint of hope, but doubt was beginning to creep in. "J-just a f-few m-more m-minutes. It-it'll t-t-take them a w-while to g-g-get the b-boats or-organized…"

He was freezing, barely able to talk around his shivering. She stared at him blankly, not believing him. No one was coming. There would be no boats. Those who were in them were safely away, and they wouldn't risk their lives coming back for the few people still calling for help in the middle of the icy sea.

"I-I d-don't know about y-you, b-but I intend t-to write a strong—strongly worded l-letter to the W-w-white S-star Line about all th-this." He tried to laugh, trying to reassure her, but all that emerged was a gasp of fear.

She found his eyes in the darkness, no longer optimistic, but instead beginning to show the fear that both of them felt. There was no hope left, and she knew it.

Finally, she spoke. "I love you, Jack."

He looked at her, hope and fear mingling in his expression. "No! D-don't you do that. Don't you s-say your g-good-byes…"

_Why not?_ she wondered. They would both soon be dead. "I'm s-so c-cold…"

Jack gripped her hand tighter, looking at her intently. "Y-you're going to g-get out of here…y-you're going to g-go on…and m-make l-lots of babies…a-and you're g-going to w-watch them grow. You're g-going to die an o-old, old lady, w-warm in your b-bed. N-not here. N-not this n-night. D-do you understand m-me?"

Rose looked at him, wanting desperately to believe him, but knowing that it wasn't true. "I-I can't f-feel my body."

Jack pulled himself up slightly, resting his forehead against hers and looking her straight in the eye. "Rose, l-listen to me. Listen. W-winning that t-ticket w-was the b-best thing that ever h-happened to m-me. It b-brought me to y-you. A-and I'm th-thankful, Rose. I'm thankful." His voice was trembling with the cold that was slowly making its way to his heart. Still, he looked at her unwaveringly. "Y-you must d-do me this honor…y-you must p-promise me that you'll s-survive…that you w-won't give up…n-no matter what h-happens…n-no m-matter h-how hopeless…p-promise me now, Rose, and n-never let g-go of that promise."

Rose took a deep breath. She couldn't disappoint him, couldn't let him down. Not now.

"I promise."

He smiled shakily, repeating his words. "And never let go of that promise."

Rose nodded, looking into his eyes. "I'll never let go, Jack. I will never let go."

He kissed her hand, sinking back down and resting his chin on the board. She lay her head beside his, waiting.

XXXXX

"_Come Josephine in my flying machine…_" Rose sang softly, her gaze fixed on the star-filled sky. The stars were so bright…if only she and Jack were there, they would be safe and warm, the nightmare of the Titanic's sinking behind them. There would be no more pain, no more fear…perhaps they could even turn back time, and the sinking would never have happened.

"…_and it's up she goes…up she goes…_" Rose turned her head as a dim light briefly fell upon her pale, ice-rimmed face.

It took her a moment to comprehend what the light meant. A boat was slowly making its way amongst the bodies floating in the water, a man's voice ringing out in the stillness.

"Hello! Is there anyone alive out there? Can anyone hear me?"

Rose moved slowly, her limbs stiffened from the cold. She barely felt the pain as she tore her hair away from the ice that had frozen it to the board. Jack had been right! The boats were coming back! They would be rescued, and everything would be all right.

She shook Jack's hand, trying to wake him. There was no time to lose. "Jack, there's a boat." He didn't move. Frowning, she shook his hand harder, banging the severed handcuff against the wood. "Jack, there's a boat…Jack…there's a boat, Jack!"

He didn't stir. Rose stared at him…so still, so silent, not the slightest hint that he had heard her…or ever would. She stared at his white, frozen face, knowing deep inside what had happened. But she couldn't believe it. Not now. Not when help was finally coming. It couldn't be too late.

She shook his hand harder, rubbing it, trying to warm him, to wake him. Her voice growing high-pitched with panic and desperation, she cried out to him as loudly as she could. "Jack…Jack…there's a boat, Jack…Jack…"

She couldn't deny it anymore. He was gone, and her world—the newfound hope and love and freedom that she had known so briefly—had died with him. She put her head down, tears running from her eyes and freezing to her face.

"Oh, Jack…"

She heard the voice calling again, the faint sound of oars in the water as the people in the boat continued to look for survivors, but it didn't matter. There was no reason to go on. Not without Jack.

Then she remembered the promise she had made to him. She hadn't believed, when she had made it, that there was any hope. But now a boat had come, looking for survivors…and she had to keep her promise. She couldn't let Jack down.

"Come back!" she called, her voice almost too faint for herself to hear. She raised her head, looking in the direction of the boat, which was slowly moving away. "Come back! Come back!"

It was no use. They couldn't hear her. She watched in despair as the boat moved farther away from her, hope fading. There was no way she could get the attention of the people in the boat, and she wasn't strong enough to swim after it.

Then she saw the glimmer of a whistle frozen in the lips of a dead officer some twenty yards away, and knew what she had to do. She breathed on the hand that was frozen to Jack's, melting the ice just enough for her to break free. As he sank into the water, she kissed his hand one last time, tears filling her eyes.

"I will never let go. I promise," she whispered, letting him go and watching as he disappeared into the depths of the icy sea.

When she could no longer see him, she lunged from the piece of wreckage, swimming awkwardly in the direction of the dead officer. Resting on the deck chair he had been clinging to, she yanked the whistle from his lips and blew on it, faintly at first, and then louder and louder. The sound carried across the still water, alerting the men in the rescue boat to her presence.

"Come about!" The voice sounded across the water, a beam of light shining on her pale face.

Within minutes, the boat had reached her, and two men reached out to pull her inside, one taking the whistle from her. Rose shivered violently as she was wrapped in blankets, wanting to scream, to cry out, to beg them to put her back into the ocean with her beloved Jack, but she couldn't make a sound.

Blackness edged at her consciousness as she gripped the blankets, and then she knew nothing.

XXXXX

Two hours later, Rose awoke, a strange greenish light flickering across her vision. Shifting her gaze, she saw the officer who had rescued her waving a flare, and in the distance, she saw the hulk of a ship coming towards them.

Rose looked back up at the sky. It was morning now, dawn streaking the once-starry heavens, leaving her to wonder if the past night had happened at all.

But it had, and she knew it. Still cold, she curled deeper into the blankets, closing her eyes as the memories came back. There were other survivors in the boat with her, along with the men from the rescue crew, but she felt alone. Jack was gone, and, had she not made a promise to survive, she would be with him.

There were cheers from some of the survivors in the other boats, but Rose didn't hear them. Everything seemed to move in slow motion—the officer waving the flare, the men in her boat rowing towards the ship, the survivors being taken aboard the rescue ship—none of it seemed quite real.

Even hours later, as Rose sat huddled on a bench in steerage, a cup of tea in her hands, nothing seemed quite real. The weeping survivors huddled together…parents searching for missing children…wives looking for missing husbands…none of it was enough to rouse her from her trance.

There was a stir, voices sounding in surprise as people turned to stare at the man coming down the steps to the deck. A steward hurried to stop him.

"You won't find any of your people down here, sir. It's all steerage."

Rose turned slightly, recognizing her former fiancé, Caledon Hockley. His once-elegant tuxedo was damp and ripped from his struggles during the sinking the night before, and his usually arrogant, self-satisfied face now held what appeared to be a hint of worry and sorrow.

Rose didn't move from her place on the bench. She heard the sound of his footsteps as he walked slowly around the deck, looking at the faces of the survivors.

She turned towards him slightly, unsure of whether to make her presence known. She had fled from him the night before as he had chased herself and Jack into the depths of the sinking ship with a gun, but now she didn't know what to do. Should she go back to him, back to her old life? Or should she stay where she was, allowing him to think her dead?

If she went back with him, back to her old life, she would be warm again. She would be back in the lap of luxury, living the life she had been brought up to live.

But if she made her presence known, allowing him to take her back to her old life, she would lose the freedom she had tasted so briefly. For a few short days, she had known what hope and love and freedom were, and having known them once, she was loath to give them up again.

What did any of it matter, though, now that Jack was gone? It was him she had loved, he who had given her hope and taught her freedom. Without him, did those things mean anything? Love was gone, but hope and freedom…those were still there, tantalizingly close.

Rose didn't know what to decide, but as Cal came closer, she ducked her head slightly, pulling the blanket closer around her face and looking away. She heard the footsteps stop some distance away, then resume, moving away from her and back towards the stairs.

The blanket still hiding her face, she turned, watching as he walked up the steps and out of her life. She turned back, knowing that in that moment she had made her decision. She would never return to the life she had once known. Whatever happened, she would keep the promise she had made to Jack, and she would keep it on her own.

XXXXX

It was raining on the night of April eighteenth, the night the Carpathia docked in New York. As the ship came up to Pier 54, Rose stood on deck, unmindful of the rain, her gaze fixed on the Statue of Liberty. It had been a symbol of hope and freedom for millions of people before her, and would remain so for millions after. But to her, it was more.

It was a symbol of rebirth. She had been a member of the upper class, coddled, pampered—and despairing of ever being able to live the life she had dreamed of. Now, her old life was over, finished, and her new one was about to begin. Out of pain and sorrow and fear had grown resolve, and her promise to Jack was clear in her mind as an officer with a clipboard and umbrella approached her, taking down the names of the survivors.

"Can I take your name, please, luv?" he asked, pen poised to write it down.

Rose looked at him, coming to a decision. "Dawson," she told him. "Rose Dawson."

"Thank you." The officer moved along, looking for more survivors, and Rose turned her face back to the statue.

Rose DeWitt Bukater was dead, as much as if she had frozen to death that night with fifteen hundred others. She would never, could never, return to her old life, and she was dead to them now. None need ever know the truth. She was Rose Dawson now, the name that surely would have been hers had Jack survived.

Shivering, Rose dug her hands into her pockets for warmth, a confused frown crossing her face as her hand hit something cold and hard. Pulling it out, her eyes widened in surprise as she saw the Heart of the Ocean in her hand.

She looked around quickly to be sure that no one had seen, then stared at the sparkling blue gem, as blue as the eyes of the man she had loved. Tucking it back into the pocket, she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the cold rain.

Cal must have put the diamond in the pocket of the coat before putting it on her. It had been the diamond he had been seeking, not her, and she was glad now that she had not made her presence known and gone back with him.

Nothing would have changed if she had gone back. It would have been more of the same, and she would have been locked back up in her gilded cage.

Instead, she was free, free to live her own life and make her own destiny. No one from her old world would ever find her, and she would go on as she had promised Jack.

She put her hands in her pockets again, feeling the hard outline of the necklace. She was free now, and the diamond would serve as a reminder of Jack, and of a world that she would never be a part of again.


	2. Rose 1

**Chapter One**

_May 15, 1912_

Rose awoke suddenly, her body drenched with sweat. It had been a month since the Titanic had sunk, and the nightmares still plagued her. Visions of people falling into the deep, endless sea, the ship sinking down and pulling her with it, cutting off her breath and her life, and most of all, visions of Jack sinking into the water, disappearing from sight.

Sometimes she would imagine that he was there with her, that she had been mistaken and he hadn't been dead after all, but she would always awaken and find herself alone.

Rose climbed out of bed, going to the window and looking out. The sun was just beginning to rise in the east, heralding the start of another day. She sighed and stepped back, letting the curtain fall back into place.

She had managed to find a small, one-room apartment to rent. Many places refused to rent to a single woman, but the landlord here had been more interested in her money than her morals, and she had managed to secure a place to live after three weeks of living in cheap hotels, trying to stretch the money she had found in Cal's coat pockets to make it last until she was established in a good job.

Looking around the room, Rose walked over to the hook on the wall and took down her robe, wrapping it tightly around herself. The room had no carpet and only the bare minimum of furniture, but it was a place to live. A single bed sat in the corner farthest from the window, covered with the cheap sheets and quilt she had purchased, and a battered chest of drawers sat near the window, holding her few clothes. In another corner was a cast iron stove, and near that, a stained sink. The bathroom, which she shared with all the other tenants on the floor, was down the hall.

It wasn't much, but it was home—for now, at least. The neighborhood wasn't the best, but it wasn't the worst, either. She always kept her door locked, but she hadn't seen much in the way of crime—occasionally something would be stolen from someone, a window broken, or an uninvited visitor found in an unlocked room, but for the most part it was safe enough. A few blocks away, the crime rate was much higher, but here she felt relatively safe.

Her chief complaint so far—aside from the frequent lack of hot water and power outages—had been the amount of noise caused by so many people living so close together, particularly children, who seemed to run and shout from sunrise until late at night. It was calmer on days when they were in school, but many left school after only a few years, and unemployed teenagers were responsible for most of the trouble that occurred in the building.

Still, Rose was beginning to grow inured to the amount of noise—she had often wished to able to run and shout as these children did while she was growing up—and even the teenagers, for the most part, simply loitered, looking for whatever entertainment might come their way.

Many of the young people were close in age to her, and Rose often longed to be a part of their groups, to be able to simply sit and let life happen, rather than struggling to get somewhere. But it wasn't to be. She talked to some of them sometimes, and occasionally shared laughter and jokes, but her life was different from theirs. She didn't have parents to watch out for her, nor did she have younger siblings to care for. She wasn't married like some of the older ones, and whether she wanted to or not, she had to search for a job. She had found a thousand dollars stuffed into the pockets of Cal's coat, but it wouldn't last forever, especially not when she was just starting out and had so many needs.

Food, clothing, shelter—she had had to start from scratch for all three, and she was only beginning to learn such necessary skills as cooking and housekeeping. She had had to buy the bare necessities, and that had already taken sixty dollars of her money—and she still had to pay the seven dollars a month rent on her apartment and buy food—more food than an experienced cook would have to buy for a single person, since she ruined so much of it.

Rose unlocked the door of her apartment and looked out. No one was around at the moment, so she slipped out and locked the door behind her, walking barefoot down the hall to the bathroom. She jumped, startled, as a rat scurried out of the shadows and away from her, then put her hand over her heart, shaking her head. She still had a lot to get used to.

Someone else was in the bathroom when she got there, so she leaned against the wall, waiting her turn. Drumming her fingers on the dingy wall, she thought about where she might go to look for a job today.

Her original intent had been to get a job as an actress when she reached New York, but she had soon learned that it wasn't that easy. One couldn't simply ask for an acting job and be given it—auditions were necessary, and there was a lot of competition. Rose was confident that she would become an actress in time, but her initial efforts had been disappointing. No one had wanted to hire a young girl with no acting experience and no idea how much work it took to put on a play. Several directors had shown her the door immediately, without offering her an audition, and others had rejected her after hearing her read and finding that she had no idea what she was doing.

Rose had finally realized, after a week, that she would have to find some other way to support herself until she found the acting job she sought, and had begun asking at other establishments for work. Still, her lack of experience at any kind of work had stymied her. She had asked for work as a department store clerk, a waitress, and even a secretary at dozens of different businesses—all without success. She had no sales experience, no experience waiting tables, and even her high marks as a high school student were of little use in her job search. She didn't know how to do so many things, and she had never paid much attention to the people who did do the jobs she now sought—it had never occurred to her that it might be important.

Some employers wanted references, which she didn't have, or wanted to contact the high school she had graduated from, which would have pointed out her whereabouts to her mother and Cal. If they found out where she was, they would drag her back to Philadelphia, and she had no intention of giving up her newfound freedom. Even after all the weeks of searching for a job without results, she still had no intention of going back to her old life.

The bathroom door opened and the former occupant stepped out, rubbing his eyes and still looking half-asleep. He ignored Rose as he headed back down the hall to his apartment, and she paid him little heed as she stepped inside and locked the door behind her.

There had to be something she could do, she thought as she went through her morning routine. After all, even some small children, who couldn't know much or have much experience, had jobs, illegal though it now was, and immigrants who couldn't speak English were able to find jobs, so surely she would be able to find one if she looked hard enough. Perhaps she had been looking in the wrong places. Maybe she should look for a job in a factory or some such, doing something that didn't require a lot of skill. She didn't have many skills, but she did know how to sew, embroider, crochet, and arrange flowers. There had to be some sort of job she could do.

Leaving the bathroom, Rose headed back down the hall, determination in her step. She _would _find a job, and maybe she would even find it today.

XXXXX

Rose sat on a bench outside yet another factory, feeling discouraged. She had never realized how much competition there was for jobs, or how exacting employers could be. She had asked for work in five different factories today, many employing immigrants and children, but the answer had been the same—no. Two bosses had told her that she didn't look strong enough for the work, two had told her that she didn't have the skills they needed at the moment, and one had asked why she wasn't letting her husband take care of her, since she certainly wasn't one of the poor women who had to work to make ends meet. Rose wondered why he had thought that, but he had escorted her out before she could ask.

It was late afternoon now, and she had resolved to try one more factory before quitting for the day. She knew that she could do the work, if only someone would give her the chance, and she was a fast learner—whatever skills she didn't have she could soon learn.

It was hard to get the courage to go into another factory, though, after being rejected so many times. This would be more of the same, she was sure—but she had to try. She would never know for sure whether they would reject her unless she tried, and maybe this time she would be lucky.

Gathering her courage, Rose walked in the front door of the factory, looking around to see who to ask. Seeing a young woman working a small switchboard, she approached her, waiting until she looked up.

"Excuse me." Rose tried to smile, but after the long day of rejection, it was hard. "I'm looking for work. Would you happen to know if there are any jobs available here?"

"Let me check, miss," the woman answered, rising quickly and heading for the door behind her.

Two minutes later, she returned, a rotund, well-to-do looking man following her. He ignored the secretary as she sat back down, turning his attention to Rose.

"You're looking for a job?" he asked her abruptly.

"Uh…yes. Yes, sir, I am."

"Can you sew?"

Rose nodded. That was something she could do. "Ah…yes, sir."

"With a sewing machine?"

"Yes."

"We're down three seamstresses right now and we're getting backed up." He gestured to her. "Come with me. Let's see what you can do."

"Th-thank you, sir," Rose stammered, surprised.

"Don't thank me yet. You don't have the job until I've seen what you can do."

Rose followed him quickly, her heart pounding with hope. Maybe this time she would get the job. She tried not to hope too much, for fear of being disappointed again, but this was the farthest she'd gotten, and she couldn't help but hope for the best.

The man led her to a windowless room on the fifth floor. Sewing machines lined the floor in four long rows, most occupied by women hunched over their work. A few glanced up as he came in, but most ignored him, working to get as much work as possible done before they were forced to work late yet again.

He gestured to another man who was walking slowly around the room, sometimes stopping to fix a problem with a machine, other times stopping to speak to a woman, who would invariably hunch forward, working faster until he moved away.

"Mr. Byrd, this is…" He turned to Rose. "What is your name?"

"Rose. Rose Dawson."

"Miss Dawson. She's applying for one of the seamstress jobs. Show her to a machine, and let's see what she can do."

Rose walked with them to the machine, looking at it critically and hoping that it worked the same way as the sewing machine she had had back in Philadelphia. Sewing had been a hobby of hers, one that Ruth had given her marginal approval to, and she had become quite good at it. She just hoped that she was good enough.

After the foreman had set up the machine for her—a huge industrial beast—he directed her to sit down and handed her a stack of skirts to sew. Rose quickly looked them over, seeing what needed to be done, and got to work. The machine jammed once, but after Byrd had fixed it, she finished the pile of skirts quickly.

When the skirts had been sewn, she looked up, hoping that her work was good enough. Byrd looked at her work critically, testing the seams and checking to be sure that they were straight. Finally, he nodded.

"I think she'll do." He looked at his employer. "Mr. Wiseman, what do you think?"

"She'll do. She's fast enough and the quality of her work is good."

"Thank you!" Rose exclaimed, getting to her feet. "Thank you so much!"

"Miss Dawson, this is Mr. Byrd, the foreman. He'll be supervising you."

"All right." She offered her hand to Byrd, but he didn't take it. His eyes barely flickered over her face, coming to rest instead on her bosom. She dropped her hand, feeling a sudden urge to cover herself, though she was fully clothed.

"If you'll come with me, Miss Dawson, we'll complete the paperwork. You'll be paid 7.00 a week to start with, 7.50 a week after six months. Your hours are 6:00 AM to 6:30 PM, Monday through Saturday, unless the work quota is not met, at which time you and everyone else will work until it is done."

"For extra pay?"

"No. You get seven dollars a week regardless of how much work there is." He looked at her, narrowing his eyes. "Do you find this unacceptable for some reason, Miss Dawson?"

"No…no, sir. It's fine." Seven dollars a week wasn't much, and Rose knew it, but it was better than nothing, which was what she was getting before. And if she could stick with it, there would be a little more money after six months. Besides, she would get off work early enough to go to some auditions, and if she could get a job as an actress, she wouldn't have to work here anymore. But twelve and a half hours a day seemed like a lot, even if she did a get a break during that time, and if there was extra work, she would have to put in more time, without getting any more money.

"What about Sundays?" she asked, hoping that the hours would be easier then.

"The factory is closed on Sundays," Mr. Wiseman replied, not looking at her as he strode towards his office. "Also, I don't allow any unionizing here, Miss Dawson. It disrupts the communication between the management and the workers."

Rose had never thought much about unions, though she had occasionally read about them in the paper and had overheard Cal cursing them. They mostly seemed to be associated with violence and lawlessness, or so it seemed from the newspaper reports she had read, and Cal had called people who tried to form unions ungrateful for what their employers did for them.

"I've never even thought of trying to form a union," Rose told him.

"Good, because if you do, you're fired, and I'll make sure that no one else will hire you. Is that clear, Miss Dawson?"

"Y-yes, sir. Perfectly clear."

"Good. Now, let's see about your paperwork."


	3. Rose 2

**Chapter Two**

"How about dinner?"

Rose jumped, startled, as Byrd leaned down and whispered in her ear.

"W-what?"

"How about dinner?" Byrd's eyes raked her figure as he pretended to fix something on her sewing machine.

Rose turned back to her work, moving the fabric quickly under the needle. The workload had been growing progressively heavier since she had been hired two weeks earlier, the hours longer and longer, and now the foreman was asking her to dinner—again.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a cook," she answered lightly, trying to put him off. It hadn't taken her long to realize that Byrd considered the women working on this floor to be his own personal playthings. More than one woman had cast angry glances Byrd's way, infuriated that he would pursue them even when they had plainly told him that they were married, engaged, or simply not interested. A few had been angry because they had gone along with what he wanted—only to be cast aside when he got bored.

"I know a nice restaurant not far from here," he persisted, leaning even closer. "What do you say?"

Rose shook her head slightly, trying not to anger him. "I have to work," she told him, finishing one dress and starting on the next.

"We can go after you're done here."

"I really can't."

"Why? Do you have another man?"

"Yes," Rose lied, hoping that he would stop bothering her. Of course, more than one of her co-workers had complained about being pursued by him even after informing him that she was taken. Rose didn't hold much hope that her ploy would work.

"He'll never know," Byrd replied, putting one hand on her shoulder and moving it down her front. Rose shrugged him off.

"I'm here to work, not to play games." She finally turned to him, her eyes narrowing. "Find someone else to play with."

"All I'm doing is offering you a free meal."

"Yes," she replied, her eyes beginning to spark angrily, "but I would be the dessert."

"Don't be crude, Miss Dawson. Is this really all you want out of life?"

"It's better than what you're offering me."

"A nice night on the town?"

"A night under you!" she snapped back, her temper beginning to fray. "Listen to me. _I am not interested._ Leave me alone."

"I think you misunderstand my intentions."

"No," Rose replied crisply. "I don't."

"I can get you shorter hours, better pay sooner…"

"Forgive me if I doubt that."

"I can also make your life miserable."

Rose quaked inside, knowing that he was telling the truth, but she smiled widely, giving no sign of her trepidation.

"I doubt that, too." She gritted her teeth.

"Miss Dawson…"

"Look," she snapped, turning away and putting her machine back into gear. "I am here to work, to make dresses, not to be your plaything. Find someone else, because this woman isn't interested!"

Her voice had risen with each word, and some of the women working nearby looked up, a few hiding smiles at the hated foreman's expression.

He glowered at them, not looking away until they lowered their eyes and got back to work. "You've made your choice, Miss Dawson."

"Indeed I have."

"Your work is not of the quality we expect here, nor do you work fast enough. I think that Mr. Wiseman will agree that we've given you more than enough of a chance here."

Rose hated the thought of losing her job, but she wasn't going to acquiesce to Byrd's demands. She had more self-respect than that, and, beyond that, she felt that it would be a betrayal of Jack to have anything to do with the crude, overbearing foreman.

"I guess that is for Mr. Wiseman to decide," she told him, more calmly than she felt. "I know he doesn't allow you to decide those things."

He glared at her, moving towards the exit. "Keep working, ladies! I'll be back soon. If your machine jams, you'll just have to wait until I return, thanks to one of your co-workers." He looked pointedly at Rose.

Only a few women looked up, and they soon went back to what they were doing. Byrd's pursuit of Rose was no secret, and now, neither was her rejection of his advances.

XXXXX

It wasn't long before Byrd returned, Wiseman following quickly behind him, impatient and wanting to get back to his meeting. They stopped behind Rose, waiting a moment as she finished what she was doing and turned to them.

"Mr. Wiseman. How may I help you?" Rose asked, knowing why he was there but pretending ignorance.

"Mr. Byrd has informed me that the quality of your work is poor and that you are one of the slower workers on this floor." He gestured to the pile of finished dresses, raising an eyebrow when he saw how high it was. It certainly didn't look as though she was a slow worker.

Taking a deep breath, Rose reached for one of the dresses and handed it to him, hoping that her workmanship was good enough. Having been clothed only in the best all her life, she knew what sort of quality fine ladies looked for in their clothing, and although these dresses weren't of the sort that she had worn in her old life, she had done her best to stitch them as skillfully as if they would be purchased by the most discerning of high society women.

Wiseman examined the seams, turning to Byrd with a stormy look on his face.

"You pulled me out of my meeting to complain about _this_?" he asked disdainfully. "You're right when you say that the quality is not what I expect. It's better. I most certainly am not going to fire Miss Dawson because the quality of her work is _superior_!"

"But sir…" Byrd stammered, at a loss for words. He wasn't used to having his wishes denied. "She…she talks constantly, she daydreams…I don't think she's suitable for this position."

"If I believed that, I would be losing a very valuable employee. And Mr. Byrd, don't think that I don't know what position you do think she's suitable for…there have been complaints."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Wiseman sighed. "Very well, but I am not firing Miss Dawson. She's making money for me."

Rose looked up hopefully. "Does that mean I can have a raise?" The money she made didn't stretch far.

Wiseman turned to her, his face darkening. "No," he told her abruptly. "You're not the only good worker here, and if I raised your wages, everyone would want a raise, and then where would I be?"

From the cut of his clothes and the girth of his belly, Rose didn't think that it would hurt him much to pay everyone an extra dollar a week or so, but she had already won one battle—to keep her job—and didn't think that now was the time to start another.

"Of course, sir. I understand." She sat back down, glancing up at Byrd once with a faint smirk as she resumed her work.

At least she would keep her job. That was something.


	4. Rose 3

**Chapter Three**

Rose stirred uncomfortably in her sleep, her hand moving to her throat. Over the past few weeks, she had been awakened numerous times by an overwhelming feeling of nausea, forcing her out of bed when she would have preferred to still be sleeping.

The first few times it had happened, she had raced down the hall to the bathroom, but if someone else was inside, or if the nausea was too overwhelming, she didn't always make it there before she got sick. From the smell of the hallway and the stains on the floor, Rose knew that she wasn't the only person to have ever gotten sick there, but it embarrassed her, and after the first couple of times that it happened, she had placed an old, bent pot under her bed so that she could easily get to it if she needed it.

This morning, she needed it. Retching miserably, she held her hair out of the way with one hand and waited for the spasms to stop. When she was finally done, she shoved the pot back under the bed and staggered dizzily to the sink to wash her mouth out.

The first rays of sunlight were appearing over the city, so she decided against going back to bed. Pulling out the mirror she had bought secondhand, she examined her pale face, trying to push her niggling worries aside.

When she had gotten sick the first time, she had assumed that it was because of her lack of skill as a cook. The previous evening's meal had come out half-burned and half-raw, and with no other explanation for her illness, she had blamed the bad-tasting mess she had consumed the night before.

But it had happened again. And again, although her cooking skills had improved. And now, late in June, she was beginning to have an inkling of what the real problem was.

Rose sank down on her bed, the mirror still clutched in her hands. No one had told her much about the symptoms of pregnancy when she was growing up, but when she had become engaged to Cal, her mother had given her a very brief overview of what to expect. Ruth hadn't gone into much detail—the whole subject embarrassed her, with her Victorian upbringing—but it had been enough for Rose to have a basic idea of what it would be like to be in the family way.

Rose pulled her knees up to her chest and stared blankly at the dark, plain wall across the room. Logically, she knew that she would be in a bad position if she were pregnant, with no husband and needing to support herself and the baby alone. She knew that she should hope that her suspicions were wrong.

But another part hoped that she was right, that was expecting a baby. She had loved Jack with all her heart, and the thought of having his child, of having a piece of him still in the world, filled her with joy. She knew that she shouldn't hope for a such a thing, but she wanted it to be true. She wanted to have Jack's baby.

Realizing that she had to get ready for work if she wanted to be there on time, Rose slowly got to her feet, holding onto the battered metal headboard for a moment as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Not for the first time, she wished that she could stay home, but if she didn't go to work, she wouldn't be paid, and then she might not be able to pay her rent, or buy food. So far, she was scraping by, but she couldn't take any chances.

She needed to see a doctor to see if her suspicions were correct. That would cost money, but she would have to go in order to confirm her suspicions and make sure that her symptoms weren't actually from illness. She admitted that she could wait to see if she was pregnant, wait to see if her stomach started to swell, but if it didn't, if she was actually sick, she needed to get medicine to cure whatever the problem was before it got worse—because whatever it was, it wasn't going away.

XXXXX

It was early evening when Rose made her way to the small clinic located a few blocks from her work. She had carefully placed twenty dollars of Cal's money in her bodice when she had left for work that morning, hoping that it would be enough to pay for the doctor's visit. She had never had to pay for medical care herself when she was growing up—it had always been billed to her father, who had paid those bills and never said a word to his daughter about the cost. But as wealthy as they had been, the cost of the occasional doctor's visit to their home hadn't been worthy of much notice.

Rose entered the clinic a bit timidly, not sure what she would find there. The doctor she had seen when growing up had always come to her home to see her, and she had never had to go to a public place to see a doctor before. She wasn't at all sure what to expect.

The walls of the clinic were painted a sterile white, and the wooden floorboards were scrubbed clean—or they had been before the patients that day had walked over them, leaving trails of dirt and some substances Rose did not care to identify. A desk was near the opposite wall from where she had come in, and a young woman sat there, her hands flying as she went over a pile of paperwork. Hard, straight-backed chairs sat in neat rows across the room. Two doors behind the desk led to what Rose presumed were the doctors' offices.

Rose approached the receptionist slowly, not sure what to do. Did she have to make an appointment? Did she just say that she needed to see a doctor and then wait? How much did it cost?

"Excuse me." Rose cleared her throat, looking down at the receptionist.

It took a moment for the woman to realize she was there. Setting her pen aside, she looked up at Rose. "Yes? How may I help you?"

"I…I need to—to see a doctor. Do I need to make an appointment?"

"I'll see if there's time for the doctor to see you. We close at seven."

Rose nodded, knowing how late it was. It had been just after 6:30 when she had gotten off work, and it had taken her some time to walk to the clinic. Glancing at the small clock on the desk, she saw that it was almost seven o'clock.

"I'm sorry to be here so late—I was working…"

The receptionist nodded understandingly. "We don't have anyone waiting ahead of you today, so you may be able to see him. Otherwise, you'll have to make an appointment. Just give me a moment, and I'll find out."

She disappeared through one of the doors. Rose sank down into one of the chairs, wrinkling her nose at the strong antiseptic smell of the clinic. When she had seen the doctor at home, she had only had to smell such odors if someone was very ill—like her father when he had died.

The receptionist came back out. "The doctor will see you in a few minutes," she told Rose. "I just need you to fill out this paperwork."

Rose took the clipboard and the papers, sitting back down in the chair to fill them out.

She found that she couldn't be completely truthful on the forms—she had no intention of letting the doctor know that she was unmarried, or that she lived alone in the tenements. When the paperwork asked whether she was married, she said that she was, and that she lived with her husband. The clinic was a long way from her apartment building, and amongst the crowds in New York, no one need ever know that she wasn't telling the truth.

When Rose returned the paperwork to the receptionist, she suddenly remembered that she had no idea how much the doctor's visit would cost, or whether she had enough money for it.

"I…ah…" Rose stammered, not sure how to ask the question. Her mother had always taught her that it was rude to ask how much something cost.

"Yes?"

"Ah…how much is this going to cost? My husband and I haven't much to spare…"

"Just the doctor's visit is five dollars. If you need medicine, or hospitalization, it will cost more."

Five dollars! Rose remembered a time, not long ago, when she would have thought nothing of spending five dollars on something she didn't need. Now, after working in a sweatshop and paying the rent on her tiny room, money seemed far more valuable. Five dollars was more than half of a week's pay. It was no wonder that many of her neighbors and fellow workers chose not to go to a doctor until they were severely ill or injured—and by that time, it was often too late. Rose knew of two neighbors and a factory worker who had died since she had come to live in New York—and none had been over the age of fifty.

"You'll need to pay it right away. We don't have credit here."

Rose nodded. "All right." Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she quickly reached into her bodice and pulled out the twenty dollar bill. The receptionist raised an eyebrow when she saw it—few of the patients at the clinic had that much money at once—but she didn't say anything. Taking the money, she quickly got out Rose's change from a metal box in a drawer and handed it to her. Rose slipped the money into her bodice again, trying hard not to be obvious about where she was putting it. She couldn't afford to have a pickpocket take it from her.

A few minutes later, a nurse called Rose into one of the back rooms. After taking her blood pressure and asking her a few questions, she left, and the doctor came into the room a short time later.

He consulted his papers. "Mrs. Dawson?" he asked, putting out a hand. "I'm Dr. Campbell."

Rose shook his hand, then climbed up on the examining table. Setting the paperwork aside, Dr. Campbell turned to look at her.

"What seems to be the problem, Mrs. Dawson?" He looked at her, noticing that she wore no ring on her left hand, but that in itself was not so unusual. Many poverty-stricken patients were too busy struggling to obtain the basic necessities of life to worry about such niceties as wedding rings.

Rose took a deep breath. "I…I think I may be in the family way." She blushed slightly, embarrassed to talk about it, even with a doctor.

"Do you have any symptoms of pregnancy?"

"Yes, I…I've been sick in the mornings since May, and I get dizzy sometimes, and…and I haven't had my…uh…my monthly complaint since April. I…it might be my imagination…but my…uh…my husband wanted me to see a doctor to be sure. He's hoping for children soon," she added, hoping that her story was believable.

Dr. Campbell just nodded. "You may be pregnant…but I want to examine you to be sure." He handed her an encompassing gown. "I'll step out for a few minutes while you change into that, and then we'll see whether you're expecting or not."

XXXXX

Rose hurried along the street, filled with an odd combination of euphoria and anxiety. He suspicions had been correct. She was indeed carrying Jack's child. The thought of having a baby, the child of the man she loved, though he would never see it, filled her with joy, but at the same time, she was anxious about the future.

She was a single woman, one who had never been married. It was no sin for a widow to have a child, but she wasn't really a widow, no matter what she told people. She was soon to be an unmarried mother, one who would have to find a way to care for her child while earning a living. She wouldn't have the luxury of staying at home with the baby, but she also didn't have the money to hire a nursemaid for the child like she had had when she was young. There were some children working in the factory—illegally, since the passage of the child labor laws—but none were newborns, of course, and she doubted that Mr. Wiseman would allow her to bring her baby to work with her. She might not even be able to keep her job once she became visibly pregnant—she had noticed that there were no women in the family way at the factory, at least not on her floor. And Byrd would undoubtedly have something to say once he noticed her condition—he still hadn't forgiven her for rejecting him.

Still, she wanted the baby, and was glad to have a part of Jack still with her, even if it made her life much more complicated. It would be difficult, but somehow, she would find a way to make it work.


	5. Rose 4

**Chapter Four**

_October 14, 1912_

Rose sank slowly into her seat at her sewing machine, aware that a few of the other workers were staring at her. For months, she had been attempting to conceal her pregnancy through the use of baggy clothes and corsets, trying to make herself appear plump rather than pregnant, but it was no longer working. That morning, she had simply been unable to tie her corset, no matter how hard she had tried, and in spite of her loose, empire-waist dress, her swollen middle was still visible. There was no hiding the fact that she was pregnant now.

She turned quickly to her work, pretending that she hadn't noticed the curious, sometimes hostile, stares. Byrd stared at her, his eyes narrowed, before turning away. She knew that he was angry, but he wouldn't do anything—not yet. He didn't yet have an excuse, but if he found one…

She shuddered inwardly at the thought. She needed this job, needed the income, small though it was, that it brought. With no husband, no one to help her, she needed to save as much as possible so that she could afford to care for her child—and afford to find someone else to care for it while she worked.

Rose's condition, however, was a subject of interest to more than one person. Though most had children or siblings of their own, the fact that Rose was visibly pregnant and still working was of great interest to many. Mr. Wiseman could be very strict about what he considered to be the moral fiber of his employees, and more than one person had heard Byrd refer to Rose as _Miss_ Dawson. The fact that Rose wore no wedding ring was also of interest, though there were married women at the factory who wore no ring because they couldn't afford one, or because it interfered with their work.

Still, it wasn't long before one of the other women, one who had often been jealous of the praise that Rose received for her work, asked her about her condition. Rose had hoped to avoid the subject, but the woman cornered her at lunch, hoping to knock Rose off her pedestal.

"Is this your first child?" she asked, her voice sweet, but something about the tone of it set Rose's teeth on edge. She didn't trust her, couldn't help but feel that her sudden solicitousness meant that she was up to no good.

Rose edged away from her. "Yes," she replied shortly, not elaborating.

The woman waited for a moment, looking at Rose critically, but when no more information was forthcoming, she tried again.

"Why is that you don't wear a wedding ring?" she asked, her voice as sweet as before.

Rose froze, trying to think of an answer. She had never paid much attention to whether other women wore wedding rings or not, and she couldn't think of a good reason why she wasn't wearing one.

The woman looked at Rose knowingly, a slight smirk on her face. "I see. Well, it's been nice talking to you."

She moved away quickly, joining her own friends. Rose face flamed as she turned away, concentrating on her lunch. She could hear the whispers as they discussed her, hear the titters as they thought about her predicament.

Rose still held out hope that the women would be content to gossip amongst themselves, rather than spreading the word to the hated foreman, but not long after they returned to work, she caught sight of the woman who had been interrogating her talking to the foreman and pointing to her.

Rose lowered her head, trying to concentrate on her work. She watched them out of the corner of her eye, and was surprised when Byrd glared at her, then left the room. Relieved, she continued with her work.

Rose's relief was short-lived. A few minutes later, Byrd returned, Wiseman in tow. The owner's face was stormy as he walked towards her, shutting down her machine and gesturing imperiously to her.

The room quieted as Rose got to her feet, knowing what was coming. Most of the women still worked, or at least pretended to, but some had stopped, staring at her, including the woman who had reported her to Byrd. Byrd gave the women who had stopped working severe looks as he followed Rose and Wiseman from the room.

Once they had reached his office, Wiseman tore into Rose. "I can see that Mr. Byrd wasn't lying when he said that you were with child, but can you explain to me why you wear no wedding ring? Is it true that you are unwed?"

"Mr. Wiseman, I—"

"Is it true?" Wiseman had no patience with Rose's attempt to explain.

"Yes, it's true." Rose ducked her head miserably, blinking back the tears that were trying to well up in her eyes. Unless Wiseman showed an unusual amount of compassion, she would be out of a job. With no prospects for another job and a baby on the way, what would she do? "Mr. Wiseman, please…"

Wiseman gave her a disgusted look. "Mr. Byrd, escort her from the building. I don't want to see her here again."

"Yes, sir. Come along, Miss Dawson." Byrd smirked as he held the door open for her, looking falsely solicitous as he escorted her from the office.

Just before they reached the end of the corridor, Byrd turned and pushed her against the wall, an unpleasant smile on his face.

"You make me sick," he hissed, staring at her as though she were an insect that he would like to crush. "Sleeping around, and then thinking that you can get decent people to accept you and your bastard."

Rose flinched at the word bastard. She tried to pull away from him, but he grabbed her arm, refusing to let her leave.

"I think you'd better let me go," she told him, yanking her arm from his grasp. "Mr. Wiseman told you to escort me from the building, not attack me in the hallway."

"Mr. Wiseman knows all about you."

Rose had been about to walk away, but now she turned quickly to face him. "Mr. Wiseman knows nothing of my life—and neither do you. You, Mr. Byrd, are only angry because I spurned your advances and accepted the advances of another man."

Byrd's face turned red. He grabbed at her, trying to pull her back, but Rose was ready for him. To his shock, she spat in his face, then turned and stalked from the building, leaving him staring after her.

XXXXX

Rose didn't stop until she was several blocks from the factory. Sinking down onto a bench, she buried her face in her hands in despair. She had no job now, no way to support herself and her coming child. The chances of her finding another job were slim at best.

For a moment, she considered returning to her old life in Philadelphia. It took her only another moment to reject the idea. She didn't want to go back. In spite of the difficult turns her life had taken, she had no desire to return to the stultifying world she had occupied before. At least here she was free, free to do as she pleased, free to pursue whatever dreams she wanted—even if those dreams seemed far away at the moment.

She didn't even know if her mother would take her back, and certainly she would be ostracized by society if she did return. She was unwed and pregnant, the baby's father a vagabond steerage passenger she had met on the ill-fated ship. She might not even be allowed to keep the baby, but might instead see it torn from her arms and given away to a couple who would raise it in a proper home.

She couldn't bear the thought of giving up her baby. Straightening her back, Rose stood, wiping a few stray tears from her cheeks, and set about trying to find another job.


	6. Rose 5

**Chapter Five**

_January 15, 1913_

Rose lay in bed, shivering under the thin sheet and quilt. She curled up to conserve warmth, stifling a low moan of pain as she did so. Her apartment had no heat besides the little that her stove generated when she was cooking, due to her inability to afford enough fuel to keep the tiny room warm. She was always cold, even when wearing as many clothes as possible, including Cal's now badly misshapen and water-stained coat.

To make matters worse, her back had begun to ache the previous day, her muscles tightening painfully at intervals that grew closer and closer together. She was nine months pregnant now, and the baby would be born soon.

Rose sat up in bed, wrapping the quilt around herself. It was still dark outside, but she had splurged on a few candles to light her room when the electricity failed—which was often. Slipping awkwardly out of bed, she tugged on the chain to the single weak bulb that lit her room, then sighed. There had been no electricity for a week, and this morning—or perhaps it was still the middle of the night; she couldn't tell in the dark—was no exception.

She struck a match and lit a single candle, leaning as close to the meager warmth from the flame as she dared. The clock read three, but she knew that she wouldn't sleep anymore this night.

After a quick trip down the hall to the bathroom—thankfully empty at this hour—Rose curled up in her bed again, warming herself as best she could. She knew that she should blow out the candle and save it, but she wanted the light now, knowing that the sun wouldn't rise for several hours yet, and even then it was likely to be dark in her tiny apartment.

Rose bit her lip as another pain began in her back, working its way around to her stomach. She had learned enough about childbirth from some of the other women in the building to know that this was the beginning of labor—but there was no way of knowing how long it would be before the baby was actually born.

Hugging her stomach, Rose wondered what she would do after the birth. She had been unable to find another job after being fired by Wiseman—most employers were put off by her pregnancy. Some had questioned why she wasn't staying home and letting her husband support her while she was with child. Others had told her that the place of a woman with children was in the home, even when she had pleaded that she was a widow and had no husband to support her. One employer had even suggested that she earn her living the way she had conceived the child—something that had made Rose's temper flare. She wasn't a whore, and she had no intention of becoming one.

But no matter what reason—or lack thereof—for hiring her potential employers gave, the answer was always the same—no. No one would hire a pregnant woman who would soon need time off for the birth of her child, especially one who, in the minds of some, could not possibly be anything other than an immoral hussy.

Perhaps she would have more luck after the birth. She would have to find someone to care for the child while she worked—unless she could find a job where she could bring her baby with her, something that struck Rose as extremely unlikely—but at least she wouldn't be hampered by pregnancy anymore.

She still had some of the money that Cal had left in the coat pockets—she had been very frugal—but buying the things she needed for her coming child had taken quite a bit of it, and the expenses of day-to-day life—especially since her landlord had raised the rent to nine dollars a month—had also taken a good chunk of the money. She could make it last a while longer if she was careful, but she had to find work soon. There would soon be another mouth to feed.

At least she had found someone to help her with the birth. A woman across the hall and several doors down had three living children—and three more that she had lost, two of them at birth—and claimed to be an expert on childbearing. More than one woman in the building and on the block had gone to her for help when their babies were born—she charged far less for her help than a doctor would—though not all of the births had been successful. The woman had admitted to Rose that several of the babies she had helped deliver had died, though that was not unusual. The infant mortality rate, even amongst babies born to the wealthiest women with the best doctors, was high, though it was higher amongst poor women. There were few effective drugs available for treating infection and disease—the era of antibiotics was still a good thirty years away, and most vaccines were still farther away—and there was little that could be done for babies born prematurely or with birth defects.

Rose knew of one woman who had died in childbirth under the midwife's care—she had bled to death following the birth. The woman's husband had run out to the street and flagged down a passing automobile to take her to a hospital, but by the time they had arrived it had been too late. Rose hadn't known her well, but she had been shocked and frightened by her death, especially with her own baby due in less than six weeks.

As another contraction tightened her muscles, this one longer and harder, Rose fervently wished that she had sought the help of a real doctor, rather than a midwife with no formal training. But how would she have afforded a doctor, and would she have gotten to him when the time for birth came? She had no car or carriage to get her to the hospital, no telephone from which she could call the doctor. And, in truth, the care given by the midwife was probably just as good—and maybe even better in some cases—than that given by a doctor. But Rose had been raised in a wealthy family where a doctor was available for any ailment, and trusting something as important as the birth of her child to someone else was almost more than she could bear, if she'd had a choice.

XXXXX

Rose lay in her narrow bed, her hair and nightgown soaked with sweat as she labored to give birth. The midwife knelt at the end of the bed, checking Rose's progress and shaking her head.

"You should be farther along than this by now," she told Rose, rising from the bed with difficulty and limping to the sink to wash her hands.

Rose stared after her with weary eyes. She had been in labor for sixteen hours now, her body bearing down repeatedly as she struggled to bring her child into the world without success. Blearily, she watched as the woman finished washing her hands and limped back towards her.

The midwife had once been a factory worker, but an accident with the machinery had badly broken her left leg, leaving her with a permanent limp. She had lost her job after the incident and had been unable to find another, but she was fortunate enough to have her skills as a midwife, from which she earned enough money to help support her family. Her children worked, too, as did her husband when he was able to find employment. His heavy drinking interfered greatly with his ability to work.

Rose arched against another contraction, a high-pitched scream of pain tearing itself from her lips. The midwife was at her side in an instant, propping her up and rubbing her back soothingly.

"Is it supposed to be this painful?" Rose gasped, her hands clutching so tightly at the cheap sheet covering the bed that it tore, the damp fabric separating easily under her fingers.

"Sometimes, yes. Every women's experience is different, as is every birth. But with how long you've been in labor, and how close together your contractions are, you should be closer to delivery by now. You aren't dilated enough yet, though."

Rose turned frightened eyes to look at her. "What's happening? Is my baby going to die? Am I going to die?"

"Don't think about that," the midwife advised her, patting Rose's shoulder. "There are still things I can do."

"Then do them!" Rose hissed, propping herself up on her elbows. "I won't—I _can't_ let my baby die. It's all I have left of my husband."

"I know, dear, but what I may need to do is dilate you myself. It will be painful, and could be dangerous. Such a fast dilation could damage your cervix."

Rose didn't understand half the words the woman used. All she knew that was that the pain grew worse with every contraction, and she was growing fearful for her still-unborn child. Pains ripped through her rapidly, with less than a minute between them, and her body seemed to bear down on the child with a mind of its own, but still the baby wasn't born.

The midwife moved back down to the end of the bed, intending to open Rose's body with her own hands if it was necessary, but stopped when her patient cried out again, wrapping her arms desperately around her distended stomach and bearing down fruitlessly.

Rose threw her head back and screamed, bearing down with all her strength as yet another pain ripped through her. She felt something give way inside her, and a warm gush of fluid soaked the bed beneath her.

"Ohhhhhhh!" she wailed, hugging her stomach as through trying to protect the child inside. She felt an agonizing tearing sensation deep inside, and suddenly the thin mattress was soaked with blood.

It took the midwife only a moment to make a decision. "You need a hospital," she told Rose, limping to the door and throwing it open.

"No! Don't leave! Please!" Rose begged, but the midwife stepped out into the hall, her voice strident as she grabbed a passing youngster and ordered them to get someone to help her bring her patient downstairs. Rose wasn't able to get to the street on her own, and there was no way the midwife could carry her.

Rose was hardly aware of the midwife's return, or of her frantic efforts to stem the bleeding. When a large, burly man from a neighboring apartment came in and picked her up, Rose struggled for a moment, not knowing what was happening, then gave up. She felt curiously light-headed, and she could still feel the blood flowing, running down her legs and soaking her nightgown. The man held her gingerly, not wanting her to bleed on him.

In minutes, they were outside on the street. The young boy the midwife had gotten to help had flagged down a passing wagon.

The driver stared, wide-eyed, as the man carrying Rose put her in the back of the wagon and helped the midwife up beside her. His horses shied at the commotion as he tugged nervously at their reins, not sure that he wanted the responsibility of getting the young woman to a hospital.

"Well, don't sit there and stare!" the midwife snapped, helping Rose into a more comfortable position. "She needs a hospital! Get moving!"

"Yes, ma'am." The driver threw them one more wary glance, then shouted to the horses, moving them into the street.

"No…my baby…please, don't let it die…" Rose mumbled to the midwife, who had covered Rose with the quilt snatched from her bed and was still working to stem the bleeding.

"You're going to be all right, Mrs. Dawson," the woman told her, patting her hand reassuringly. "We'll get you to a hospital, and you and your baby will be just fine…"

Rose looked into the midwife's eyes, seeing from her expression that she didn't believe what she was saying.

Her eyes filling with tears, Rose looked at her pleadingly. "Help me…" she murmured, her words trailing off as everything went black.

XXXXX

Rose awoke in a brightly lit room. She was covered by a white sheet and light blanket, and the air was filled with a harsh medicinal smell. Four other women were in the room with her, three lying in beds like hers and one standing at the window looking out.

A moment later, a woman in a nurse's uniform came into the room. She looked at the patients in the row of beds, smiling when she saw that Rose was awake and looking at her.

"Good morning, Mrs. Dawson," she said, looking at the chart that was hanging at the end of Rose's bed. "I see you've decided to come back to us."

Come back? Have I been somewhere?

"What?" Rose tried to speak, but her mouth was parched, her lips painfully dry. The nurse saw this and poured her a glass of water.

After a few sips, Rose tried again. "Where am I? What happened?"

"You're in St. Luke's hospital, Mrs. Dawson. You were having a difficult birth, so your midwife brought you here."

Suddenly, everything came rushing back to Rose. The hours of laboring…the tearing pain inside…the gush of blood that wouldn't stop. She put her hands on her stomach, realizing that, though sore, her stomach was now quite flat.

Her eyes darting around frantically, Rose pushed herself into a sitting position, ignoring the pain that tore through her lower torso as she did so. She gazed around the room, searching, but there was no sign of a baby.

"Mrs. Dawson, please. You have to lie still. You'll open your stitches if you try to move like that." The nurse pushed her back down, Rose still too weak to resist.

"My baby. Where's my baby! How long have I been here?"

"You've been here since about 8:30 last night—so about twelve hours. And your baby is fine—she's in with the other newborns."

"She? I have a daughter?"

The nurse nodded. "Yes. But—"

"I want to see her."

"You'll see her, Mrs. Dawson. But the doctor needs to examine you first and talk to you. Then she'll be brought to you."

"Is there something wrong with her? Is that why I can't see her right away?"

"She's fine, Mrs. Dawson. Healthy as can be. The doctor just wants to make sure you're all right before you hold her."

"Can't I see her? Just for a moment? Please, I—"

"Mrs. Dawson, the doctor will see you in a few minutes. You'll just have to be patient…"

"Please, just let me look at her. I won't do anything to injure myself—"

"How is she doing, Nurse Radcliffe?"

Rose looked up as a doctor came into the room, a clipboard in his hands.

"She's awake, Dr. Peterson—awake, talking, and desperate to see her baby."

"I see. Not at all unusual, especially under the circumstances."

Rose looked up at him. _What circumstances? I had a difficult birth, but it seems like he means more…_

Dr. Peterson pulled the curtain beside Rose's bed closed, shielding her from the eyes of others. Nurse Radcliffe moved away quietly, going to check on the other patients in the room.

"Doctor, what do you mean by under the circumstances? I know I had a difficult birth, but…"

"Your womb tore before you were brought here, Mrs. Dawson, probably from straining to expel the child when you weren't fully dilated. You lost a great deal of blood, and we almost lost you. The baby was delivered by Caesarean section…"

"What's a Caesarean section?" Rose interrupted, wondering what had been done to her.

"It's an operation where the womb is surgically opened and the baby removed. It's done when woman is unable to give birth the usual way." He pulled up her nightgown, carefully pulling away the bandages covering her abdomen and checking the incisions for infection. Satisfied, he dabbed on some sort of liquid that made Rose wince in pain, then rebandaged her stomach.

"Mrs. Dawson…"

"Can I see my baby now?" Rose asked, eager to see and hold her child. Her stomach was sore, but the thought of her newborn made the pain seem insignificant.

"In a few minutes. Mrs. Dawson, there's something else I need to tell you."

"What is it?" Rose looked at the doctor's grim expression, her heart beginning to pound with dread.

"We were unable to stop the bleeding from the tear in your womb. The tissue and blood vessels were too badly damaged, and so we had to perform a hysterectomy in order to save your life."

"A what?"

"We had to remove your womb."

Rose gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth. "But…but that means…"

"You won't be able to have any more children, Mrs. Dawson. Your ovaries are still intact, so you won't experience the symptoms of menopause, but you won't be able to have more children. You won't have your monthlies anymore, either."

"Oh…oh, God…" Rose's eyes filled with tears. _Jack, you said that I was going to make lots of babies and watch them grow, but you were wrong. My daughter…our daughter…is the only baby I'll ever have._

"Mrs. Dawson, if you and your husband want more children, you can always adopt them. There are orphanages full of children needing good homes."

Rose shook her head. "I'm a widow. My husband is dead. He'll never know that I can't have more children."

"You might remarry, then, perhaps even to a man who already has children, who you could raise as your own…"

Rose pulled up the sheet, wiping her streaming eyes with it. "I…I can't think about that right now. Please, I want to see my baby. She's all I have left…"

"Of course." Dr. Peterson stepped out of the curtained-off cubicle. "Nurse Radcliffe, please bring Mrs. Dawson her baby. I believe seeing and holding her child is the best thing for her right now."

Rose curled up in the bed, hugging herself and rocking gently. _A hysterectomy…I'll never be able to have another baby. I won't be able to marry, either—what man wants a woman who can't have children? My daughter is the only child I'll ever have. If I hadn't had a baby from that night with Jack, my life might be so different…but I can't resent my daughter. From the moment I knew I was pregnant, I loved her and wanted her. It isn't her fault that something went wrong…she's just a baby._

"Mrs. Dawson?" Nurse Radcliffe pulled back the curtain, a tiny bundle in her arms. "Here's your daughter."

Rose carefully pushed herself into a sitting position, swallowing back her sobs and ignoring the pain as she gazed at the blanket-wrapped infant in the nurse's arms. One tiny fist escaped from the blanket, waving as the nurse placed the baby girl in her mother's arms.

Rose looked at her newborn daughter, touching the tiny fist gently and smiling a little as the baby wrapped her tiny hand around her finger. She cradled her closer, rocking her gently as she whimpered slightly.

Pulling back the blanket, Rose examined the tiny hands and feet of her newborn, a hint of amusement entering her eyes when she touched the sole of a tiny foot and felt it flex, trying to curl around her fingers as the hand had moments before. She stroked the baby's cheek, cuddling her as the baby turned her head towards her, her little mouth working as though she were nursing.

The infant had a tiny, perfect mouth, like her mother's, a stubborn chin, a legacy from her grandmother, Ruth, and brilliant blue eyes like those of her father. Her head was nearly bald, with just a few strands of blonde hair on the top of it. Rose rocked her gently, wondering if her hair would be blonde or red. She, too, had had blonde hair as a baby, but her hair had turned red by the time she had been three years old.

Nurse Radcliffe watched Rose holding her baby, glad to see that her tears had stopped. "She's a beautiful baby," she ventured, looking at the tiny girl that Rose was gazing at so raptly. "Have you chosen a name for her yet?"

Rose looked up, nodding, her slight smile fading as a hint of sadness returned to her face. "Yes."

"What is it?"

Rose looked down at the infant, stroking the soft head. "Charlotte. That was the name of my husband's mother."

"That's a pretty name."

"Yes." Rose nodded, then told her the rest of the name.

"Charlotte Josephine Dawson."


	7. Rose 6

**Chapter Six**

_February, 1913_

"Please, sir, I really need this job. I'm a good worker and I learn fast. I can do anything the job requires." Rose patted Charlotte's back, holding her against her shoulder and rocking her as the infant fussed, upset by her mother's tension.

Rose had spent two weeks in the hospital following Charlotte's birth, waiting as her body slowly healed. The doctor had been reluctant to let her see the bill while she was there, but Rose, knowing how short her money was and knowing that it might be a long time before she could earn more, had insisted. She had watched the growing bill with alarm, but hadn't had the strength to leave the hospital and go back to her apartment. When the day had come that she had no more money, though, she had left the hospital and taken Charlotte with her. She had still felt weak and shaky, but there was no way she could afford to stay in the hospital any longer.

Now, only two days later, she was searching for a job again. She knew that she didn't look good—her face was too pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes from taking care of Charlotte at night. But she had no money left—not a penny to her name—and the rent was due. She needed a job desperately.

"Mrs. Dawson…" The man shook his head, watching her cradle the fussing infant. The baby couldn't be more than a few weeks old.

"Sir, I'm a good worker. Really I am. At my last job, I was one of the best seamstresses. I left to…to have my baby, but now I'm looking for work again…"

"Why don't you go back to your former workplace? If you were that good, surely they'd hire you back."

Rose shook her head, trying to think of a story that wouldn't reveal the reason why she had really left her job. "They…they've already replaced me."

"And your employer gave you no references?"

Rose shook her head. "No, sir."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You could test me and see what kind of work I can do."

"And what about your baby? You can't bring her to work with you."

"She'd be no trouble, sir, really. She's usually very quiet. I would keep her at my side. She wouldn't bother anyone."

"Mrs. Dawson, a factory is no place for a newborn. Why don't you stay home until she's a little older?"

"I…my husband is dead, sir. If I don't work, neither Charlotte nor I will eat."

"Your husband left you no money?"

"No, sir."

"Mrs. Dawson, you cannot possibly bring your baby to work. She's too young to be of any help, and the law prohibits young children from working now in any case."

"I'll find someone to watch her while I work, then."

"For twelve to fourteen hours a day?"

"If necessary, yes."

"Why didn't you get someone to watch her today instead of bringing her along on your job search?"

"I…I didn't realize it would be necessary."

"Mrs. Dawson, you say you've worked in a factory before. Didn't you ever notice that there were no babies there?"

"I…I never really thought about it."

He sat back, shaking his head and looking at her. "Mrs. Dawson, I cannot possibly hire you now. You have a young child to care for, and you may not be reliable because of that. If she gets sick, you won't come in. And you don't want to miss watching her grow, anyway."

"But, sir, if I don't work…how will I take care of her?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Dawson. That isn't my concern."

Rose tried once more, knowing even as she did that it was useless. "I'm very reliable, sir. If Charlotte gets sick, I…I'll come in anyway and work as long and as hard as anyone. There are people who could take of her."

"No, Mrs. Dawson. I won't hire you. Perhaps someone else will, but my business cannot be disrupted by a woman who has to run home to see to her child."

"Please, sir…"

"Good day, Mrs. Dawson." The man dismissed her, turning back to his work without another glance.

Rose went outside, cradling Charlotte in her arms as she shivered against the February chill. This was the fifth factory she had asked for work at today—and the first that had even granted her an interview. She looked down at the baby in her arms, realizing that the man who had interviewed her had been right—a factory was no place for a newborn baby.

She would have to find someone to watch Charlotte while she worked if she wanted to have any chance of finding a factory job. But she didn't know many people in New York, due to the fact that she had spent so much time looking for work, and many of the women in her building had to work themselves to keep their families alive. Women of the upper and middle classes were usually able to stay home with their children—in fact, working was considered inappropriate and even scandalous for women of the upper class, whether they had children or not—and even women of the working class were often able to stay home with their children, but for the poor women of the tenements, working was often necessary. The jobs their husbands held paid poorly, and their families often went hungry without the additional income a working mother brought home. A few women were able to stay home, but many more had to work.

Rose briefly considered asking the midwife to watch Charlotte, then dismissed the idea. The woman was rarely home—births were common in the tenements, and babies didn't choose convenient times to be born—and Rose didn't want Charlotte to have to accompany her when she assisted with a birth anyway. Giving birth was a normal, natural process, but Rose had been raised in the upper class, where childbearing was kept behind closed doors and most girls knew little about it, at least in theory, until they were ready to marry themselves. Rose had heard a few things from the other girls when she had been at school, but most of her knowledge about pregnancy and childbirth had come after her engagement to Cal, when her mother had felt that Rose needed to know such things and had had the family doctor explain them to her. The rest of her knowledge had come from Charlotte's hard, painful birth—and now she didn't need to know those things anymore. Not for herself, anyway.

But what could she do? She couldn't leave Charlotte at home by herself—not for the twelve to fourteen or more hours a day she would be working. The newborn needed to nurse frequently, and was incapable of caring for herself in any way. Leaving the baby alone so long was out of the question.

She would have to find work somewhere other than a factory. She had no experience at anything else, but she was well-educated, and she could even cook now. There might be other things she could do...and she might be able to bring Charlotte along to such a job. After all, hadn't she seen the children of owners of small markets in her neighborhood running about, and hadn't one of the maids when she was growing up brought her children to work with her. To be sure, the children had worked, too, but if the work wasn't too hard, it would be all right.

Hope growing in her again, Rose cradled Charlotte against her shoulder and set out, leaving the factories behind.

XXXXX

As February passed, Rose continued searching for a job—to no avail. She looked everywhere she could, seeking work as a waitress, a cook, a secretary, a clerk—even as a maid with some middle class families who were unlikely to be familiar with the people she had left behind. She offered to work for very low wages, to work extra hours—but no one would hire her. She had a young baby who couldn't be left at home, and few employers would allow her to bring Charlotte along. Those few who would had no work for her.

The rent was overdue, and Rose had been eating only because of the charity of her neighbors and because she had discovered that she could earn meals at restaurants by washing dishes or sweeping floors—but none of the restaurants were willing to hire her on as a regular employee, no matter how good a job she did when earning her food. Moreover, some restaurant owners had begun to order her away when she came seeking meals—far too many people were in a position like her, and they could only afford a certain amount of charity. Rose had even gone to a soup kitchen, but she couldn't go there regularly—it was too far away, and they frowned upon people who made use of their services too often.

Rose knew that Charlotte had a great deal to do with the fact that she couldn't find a job—but she couldn't resent her. She loved the child unconditionally, not just because she was a part of Jack, but for herself. Charlotte was her baby, and Rose loved her regardless of the consequences.


End file.
